


Hold Your Breath (and walk the roads I've braved before)

by apeirophobia



Series: Fallen From Grace [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Autism, Drift Side Effects, Ephebophilia, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Psychological Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3399644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apeirophobia/pseuds/apeirophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>6 months after Scott Hansen is dismissed from the Ranger program Herc Hansen receives a call from CPS.</p><p>Hieronymus Hansen is fifteen, autistic, and looks nothing like Scott.</p><p>Sometimes Herc regrets his whole life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Your Breath (and walk the roads I've braved before)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to "Dewer's Bane" that explores the backstory of Hieronymus Hansen, Erica Reyes-Boyd and Timí Boyd. A story about The Thing Scott Hansen did, Another Thing Scott Hansen Did (back in the day), the consequences of both those things, and how Herc tries to cope with those consequences. Fair warning: some of this chapter is from Scott's POV, and he is not a nice person.

Scott is the best brother anyone could ask for. He's charming, and handsome, and fucking hilarious, and he looks at Herc like he hung the moon (sometimes, for all his stress, Herc feels like he did). He winks when the cameras are on and claps Herc on the back when they're turned off. He's a six-more-beers-than-Herc kind of guy, an inch shorter than his older brother, but with more muscle. He's all half-buttoned Henley under his leather vest, a kill-count in blue ink visible when his shirt rides up, all "aye, she was crazy last night" with a wink when the J-tech raises an eyebrow at the scratches on his neck, and he's got everybody fooled.

 

Herc has always loved his brother with his whole heart even if he's never completed trusted him. Scott has a problem with alcohol. Scott has a problem with women. Scott has a problem with the way the edge of Herc's mouth twists whenever he's trying not to judge Scott's life decisions and failing, hard. Scott has a problem with deadly sins 1-7 but he's so damn likable and he hardly ever chases the rabbit so him and Herc get Lucky 7 and things go alright for a couple of years (happiness and peace, or what passes for them in the Hansen household, are a held's breath that balances on Scott exploiting Herc's forgiving nature and Herc hating himself just a little more).

 

Scott has a problem. He has a bruise on his right wrist and a brother in a coma. He has his hands secured to the table in front of him with unbreakable, biodegradable, zip ties and a livid Marshall glaring down at him. Scott flinches when the manila folder smacks the metal tabletop and he winces when his wrist rubs against the ties. Stacker sits down across from him and Scott can see him considering kicking the chair out from under Scott. He never could charm Stacker. Could put the con on his brother most of the time, ply him with the idea that he really did mean no harm, things could just get so out of hand sometimes, but could never quite sway Pentecost. On second thought, his longterm swindling of said brother is probably the reason Pentecost has always refused to like him. _Huh_ , Scott thinks, _always knew he was a fag_. Stacker loves Herc, it's obvious (at least to Scott), this has been fact since roughly ten minutes after Stacker shook the other man's hand outside an overcrowded shelter in Waterloo. Scott saw it, saw it like he sees all the things Herc has always been too preoccupied to notice, or too righteous to accept. Scott knows he's not one to judge--like he'd ever say no to one of the Beckets on his knees--but Stacker is the person who represents consequences to Scott at the moment, so to Scott he's a fag.

 

"Didn't know you were into this sorta thing?" Scott says airily, pulling at the plastic handcuffs and lifting an eyebrow in suggestion.

 

Pentecost's scowl, if possible, deepens and he says, voice steady, "We need to talk about your dismissal."

 

Scott, who is physically incapable of taking anything seriously, who would laugh at his own funeral, rolls his eyes and says, "You're just here because you want to know what he saw."

 

Pentecost stiffens and Scott grins victoriously, "What could be so bad it made perfect Hercules Hansen tear away from his own brother mid-Drift?" and he knows he's playing with fire but he's too far gone, was past all hope of forgiveness the moment Herc's eyes rolled back in his head and he went slack in his harness, so he's taking one last shot at Stacker.

 

"You can salvage the last of your self-respect, and cooperate for the duration of your exit interview," Stacker begins, pressing his palms to the table on either side of Scott's file, and takes a deep breath, "Or you can put your brother, who is a better man than you could ever hope to be, through an invasive interview the moment he wakes up."

 

Scott stops and thinks about it. He does love Herc, perfect, _disgusting_ Herc, even if he sometimes wants to strangle his older brother for the way he oozes concern and love; he often has the urge to crawl inside his skull and see the world from his eyes, wants to understand what it's like to experience the world as someone  _that good_.

 

Scott looks at Pentecost and he swears the older man can read his every thought, "What did you do?" he says,  _What did Hercules see?_

 

And Scott, because he's cornered and he's bitter and he has nothing else to lose, leans back casually and says, "Don't worry, she wanted it."

 

Scott smirks. Pentecost kicks the chair.

 

* * *

  

There's a duality to life. Life is both a romance and a tragedy. Some men are flawed heroes, while others are sympathetic villains. Herc is either the unluckiest bloke on the planet, or immensely blessed (or simultaneously both?). As right-hand man of Stacker Pentecost; front-runner of the Apocalypse, and father of Chuck Hansen; youngest graduate of the Academy, _and_ the only Ranger to have piloted every make of Jaeger (not to mention, the only person on Earth to come close to having full compatibility), he has  _so much_ to be thankful for and it's nearly enough to kill him. He has a friend, a son, and a god-daughter, in a world where millions have lost their families, their towns, their lives. But Herc has  _lost_ so much and sometimes the scales don't balance. 

 

Herc lost his parents before he was twenty-one, and lost his wife before he was thirty. At just shy of thirty-five he can now add his brother to the list.

Is Hercules Hansen incredibly blessed that he was able to save his son during the Kaiju attack, or tragically unlucky because he couldn't save both Chuck and Angela? 

Is Hercules Hansen blessed because he is the only person in the known world who can Drift with the fucking postman if he so chooses, or cursed because he has an  _obligation_ to the  _world_ to sacrifice his own sanity for its survival?

Is he the hero of the PPDC's narrative? Or the villain of Scott's?

 

Hercules loved Scott. Loved him just as much as he's ever loved Angela, or Chuck, or Stacker. Differently, of course, but just as much. Maybe Hercules just loved saving the world more. And when he sought to strengthen their bond mid-Drift he verged into something he wasn't supposed to see. He thinks his masochistic streak of altruism has truly bit him in the ass this time.

Hercules loved his brother, before he saw what Scott was capable of.

 

Herc wakes in the Sydney Shatterdome's med-bay to an ache in his head and his wrists wrapped in gauze. He feels hungover, the lingering sensation of Scott's mind interlocked with his, but it has none of the usual warm intimacy, the pleasant closeness, of a post-Drift haze. He feels like parts of his mind are missing, and in some of the empty spaces there are things left behind, things he doesn't want.

 

He doesn't feel very lucky.

 

* * *

 

On the Gold Coast, over a thousand miles away, Hieri leans against the metal side of an industrial trashcan and catches his breath. The streets are temporarily deserted, empty bus-stops and newspapers blowing in the wind like something from an after-the-end film. In the distance he can still hear sirens going off. The city has yet to return to it's usual order, everything out of sorts in the aftermath of a Code-K. Hieronymus doesn't mind though. When the alarms went off everyone went underground, and he took the opportunity to run. There's a chill in the air that promises winter soon, but that doesn't discourage the looters and other--advantageous--sorts, people with far less sterling motivations than Hieronymus, from being about. The chaos that surrounds a Kaiju attack is the perfect cover for anyone wishing to pass under the radar. Hieronymus is missing a shoe and wearing a parka three sizes too big with no shirt underneath, and he hasn't been questioned once. A woman who pushed past him at the top of the last subway station's steps paused for a moment and raised an eyebrow at the blood on his chin, but that was the most overt reaction anyone had shown to his state of disarray. He rubs the dried blood off his face and crinkles his nose when the wound stings. He will not start crying again (crying certainly has not gotten him this far). There will be time for crying later, or never, as long as he gets off the streets before the all-clear is issued.

 

There's a church on the next city block, behind a wrought-iron fence, that reminds him of the one his mom and dad used to take him to, and his grandmother before them. Ivy grows over the gravestones in the front yard and he thinks of his sister's baptism, of how the wax had run over his fingers as he held her baptismal candle, of how seriously he had taken his vows. He knows it isn't the same church, isn't _their_ church, but it still puts a twist in his gut when he touches the cold metal of the gate. He has broken his vows, he is a terrible big brother. If his parents were alive...well, if his parents were still alive then his vows wouldn't matter one way or another, would they? Life is full of riddles, of cause and effect and _affect_ , and sometimes it's like right answers and code words can fix the most precarious of situations but when you're fifteen and nothing makes sense it's a bit like playing Clue without all the pieces. Like life is a puzzle there's no prize for solving. And he might be at a major disadvantage; injured, lost, and in a city that's not his own, but if there is one thing Hieri knows how to be, it is how to be smart. His father (his _mother's husband_ his aunt had corrected him at the funeral, as if his father's death had retroactively taken from him the right to be loved, but he'd always called him "Dad" so what was the point of post-mortem semantics?) used to always say "such a smart boy" whenever he got first in his class or when he caught Hieri sneaking one of his old textbooks into his room to read when everyone else had fallen asleep. He called him "clever" with a proud smile when he'd tested out of the last two years of primary school. 'Clever' is all Hieronymus has now.

 

There's a little path leading around to the back of the church, and Hieri follows it to a doorway that looks promising. A nun answers the door when he knocks and Hieronymus would smile in relief if he didn't think that it would frighten her. There's a angry red split in his lower lip, he thinks he smacked it on the edge of Garrett's dresser in his haste to get out of the apartment, and it promises to start bleeding again if he moves it too much.

 

"Can I help you, dear?" the woman asks, voice full of concern, and Hieri notices that she's only a little older than his mom was. Than his mom would be.

 

"I got separated from my parents," Hieronymus lies (even if he could argue that, _technically_ , it was truth in it's own way), and looks down. It's easy to look sad, pathetic even, he doesn't even have to act. And it's easy to look young when his hair is a mess of curls and his eyes are still puffy from crying. He just needs her to not cast him out. He just needs a locked door between him and the monsters, both metaphorical and literal.

 

"You poor thing," she says, and ushers him into the foyer. He steps hesitantly over the threshold and pulls his jacket closer to his body, suddenly aware that he is shivering.  

 

The woman touches his face, oh-so-gently, and says, "Don't you worry. We'll get you cleaned up, and then I'll contact someone who can help you," and she's so kind. She doesn't look at him like he's a freak or a burden, and Hieronymus knows it won't last. He knows a lot about being abandoned and abused, luckily he also knows a thing or two about inducing sympathy.

 

He nods in agreeance, closes his eyes, and lets his tears guarantee his safety.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy, and please leave kudos/comments if you do! <3


End file.
